Anhedonia

It could almost be
a regal woman's name,
but is instead a creeping slug
made of dark matter, no, not
the kind that draws all inward,
but a cousin, like the umbra of the moon.

It is a house built on a foundation
of perpetuation
of human condition
of the ugliest, and most private despair.

It could almost be
an illustrious blue period
for the soul,
one tempered with booze,
one numbed with food and with lack of food,
one undone by silence
and one put off by noise.

It is a star leaking its light
in the sky
until only a dark point
remains,
like the period at the end of
a life like a sentence.